The Sorting Hat Is Evil
by O. Hannah
Summary: Hilarity ensues when the Hat sinks to its lowest levels of villany!  Spoilers for all of Deathly Hallows.


Albus Severus Potter sat, aghast, at the Slytherin table. Choices, pfft. What a liar his dad was. "Ask for Gryffindor. All you have to do is choose," Albus sneered haughtily. "Yeah, you've just got to chose—in so long as you're as special as dad." 

At the Gryffindor table, Albus' sentiments were mirrored. "You've got nothing to worry about," grumbled Scorpius Malfoy. "You'll be in Slytherin like the rest of the family. Everyone who's as inbred and arse-kissing as us has to get into Slytherin. No pressure." He grimaced, and started the letter home that would definitely land him disowned. No point in waiting until after the feast.

"Oh dear, oh dear," McGonagall shook her head after the Sorting. In all her time as Headmistress or teacher she'd seen how feral parents could get about their children's house. On the plus side, at least she was never head of a Gryffindor house with a Malfoy in it. That happy duty fell to Professor Longbottom. He looked worried.

After all those infernal steps, McGonagall put the hat on the shelf in her office. She'd tried everything from transfiguring those steps into an elevator to burning them with acid, but every day she was forced to wreck her knees and climb them several times a day. And Severus gleefully refused to teach her to fly. Damn steps. Damn hat.

"How did the Sorting go, Minerva?" asked Dumbledore's portrait sweetly.

She nodded, non-committal. "Wonderful," she said in a tone that said it wasn't. She gave the hat the most evil of withering glances.

"Minerva..."

Another look at the hat, wondering how long it would take her to break its protective charms, before half-turning to the large portrait. "The Potter boy is in Slytherin and Malfoy in Gryffindor."

"How wonderful," began the sensuous, velvety, gripping, smooth, chilling, enveloping and drawling voice of Alan Rickman--er, Severus Snape. "A pox on my house."

McGonagall picked up the first year roster from the desk. "Yes, a pox called Albus Severus Potter."

"You've been immortalized, Severus," added Dumbledore.

"Which I suppose being a painting precluded me from such."

"I knew I could trust you to find a complete lack of appreciation."

"Hasn't Potter received enough medals and accolades?" His voice fell back to its velvet sarcasm. "But of course you are right, Minerva. I shall give the _hero_ a warm hug the next time I see him."

"Oh, tish posh, Severus," said Phineas Nigellus as he entered Severus' frame. He started inspecting the rows of darkly bound and ancient titles in his portrait, which did not even have a chair. It was not hard to judge 'Gloomiest Headmaster of Hogwarts Portrait.' "Could we see a picture of the boy, Minerva?"

"I'm afraid I don't have one."

"Well, certainly bring one by sometime." He beamed at Severus—his acquired past time of cheering Severus up was not a rewarding one, on the whole. Snorting, he meandered back to his portrait. "Even stole my 'least popular Headmaster' title."

* * *

"Named for two Headmasters. Slytherin will just get a great student," continued the litany, well into the next week. Albus held up his father's recent letter as he headed into the library. "It's not so bad being in Slytherin. Slytherins aren't all bad—just mostly so."

"At least _you _weren't disinherited," snarled a voice from behind. Hesitantly, Albus sat across from Scorpius. "Really?"

"Well...no. He'll get over it," Scorpius looked at his own letter. "Hopefully."

"So...do you like stuff?"

"Hot damn, I love stuff!"

And they did it.

* * *

"Potter," Draco Malfoy begrudgingly shook Harry's hand.

"Malfoy."

The elder Malfoys stood behind Draco, looking equally as uncomfortable. And so were the surviving and new Weasleys, of which there were about forty-two. And Neville Longbottom, alone, since Hogwarts teachers evidently are apparently forced into celibacy or something. And there was the Lovegood clan—winning the title of 'Least Weirded by the Whole Thing.' And Hagrid, winning the title of 'Least Weirded by the Whole Thing and Isn't A Lovegood.' But then he'd seen it coming.

"Do you, Albus Severus Potter, take this man—"

Harry shrank into his seat. Facing Voldemort, _knowing_ he would die, had nothing on being the supportive father at this moment.

"Do you, Scorpius Abraxas Malfoy, take this man—"

Draco Malfoy completely concurred with Harry. And he was totally so not jealous.

"I, er, support you, of course, son," Draco managed, in a tone that screamed, 'Oh Merlin, oh _why_ the Potter boy? Why, why, _why?" _ Weakly, he scratched the back of his neck. "But just how do you intend to carry on the Malfoy name?"

Scorpius laughed, Albus staring dreamily behind him in his pink dress robes. "Pfft. Haven't you ever hard of MPreg?"

Draco fainted.

"I want to have the first baby!" Albus chirped.

"I was kidding," Scorpius retorted dryly.

"Well... so was I."

* * *

Draco Harry Malfoy-Potter stood on a platform 9 and three quarters, ready for the Hogwarts train.

"Of course it doesn't matter what house you're in, Sweetie."

"We love you no matter what, Silly Pie."

Draco Malfoy-Potter looked sullen and gloomy.. He secretly—sometimes openly—prayed that a dark lord would rise to power and start a war. Every subsequent generation since Voldemort became pansier and pussier. Someone needed to take that place...but whom? Pushing the curtains of greasy black hair from his face, he smiled sinisterly and evilly.

"Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin," his father chanted under his breath behind him.

"Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor," chanted the other one.

"Dad, other dad, look. There's only one house evil wizards ever get sorted to—so we all know where I'm going."

"Oh, Draco!" laughed Scorpius, "you're so funny."

"Yeah, thanks." He stomped on the train.

* * *

Headmaster Neville Longbottom looked at the roster again. He was frightened—and this from the person who had to deal with Severus Snape's portrait every day. "Malfoy-P-P-Potter, Draco," he managed.

Shoulders stooped, smugly grinning and his black eyes glittering, his thin frame boasted an odd confidence. He gave his large nose a scratch before sitting on the stool. Neville placed the hat on his head.

"Hufflepuff!"

* * *

"_Avada Kedavra!_" he shouted, and the last jet of green light burst forth from his wand. He was the last one standing. All dead. Surrounded by the decaying corpses of of witches and wizards to wussy to fight back, to know how, to be on guard...Lord Malfoy-Potter surveyed the havoc he had wrought, and it was good. It had been a long struggle, and by his estimate he'd created one hundred and fifty-two horcruxes. But he still had one victim left, one last one who simply had to die. The cause of his pain and misery.

"Die, hat!" he shrieked, zotting the hat with a powerful zot. It exploded into shreds. Satisfied, he skipped from the Great Hall, partaking of a bun from the Slytherin table. He wondered if his second year Sorting feast would be as productive.

The shred of the Sorting Hat that contained the mouth grunted. "Pfft. Asshats. Can't anyone take a joke?"


End file.
